What Does it All Mean in the End?

President Obama announced that all American troops
will be withdrawn from Iraq by the end of the year. After close to nine years
in the Fertile Crescent, America’s armies are coming home. Contractors and
“military advisors” will remain, but our military adventures in Iraq will
officially come to a close. What does it all mean?

Everyone likes body counts, so simple and neat. I’ll paraphrase Stalin; a single death
is a tragedy, a million a statistic. Almost 4,500 of my brothers and sisters
have died in Mesopotamia, over 100,000 Iraqis, most of them civilians. And
money, money matters. The total cost of the war has been tagged at around $700
billion dollars. Millions of Iraqis have been displaced from their homes,
thousands of American families have lost a son or daughter or father or wife,
thousands and thousands of veterans are “fucked-up” in the head . . . but these
numbers tell us nothing. What does it all mean?

I’m not qualified to speak for the nation, for the world, or for history; I can
only speak for myself. I flew out of the Middle East on Valentine’s Day 2009. I
haven’t been back since, but I took a part of it with me. Not a single day goes
by I don’t think about the people, experiences, and lessons I learned in that
ancient country. Did I have to go over there? Did I have to enlist myself in
the Army at nineteen and spend two years in a hostile combat zone? Absolutely
not, I made a choice.

I made a choice, a leap into the Army and into war-torn Iraq. I was young and
optimistic and strong. Our country made a choice, and by extension all of us.
America leaped into the war, proud and optimistic and strong. In the Army I
experienced triumph and struggle and regret. In Iraq our country experienced
triumph and struggle and regret. I have blood on my hands; my country has blood
on its hands. We’ve all made choices.

And we continue to make choices, each and every one of us. I can choose to feel
sorry for myself, demand things as a veteran, and keep my mouth shut like most
of you want me to, but I don’t. I know that my experiences in the Army and Iraq
have me a stronger, better, wiser person; I have no apologies. America can
leave Iraq and feel sorry for itself. We can bitch and moan about “China” and
the “Economy” and sink helplessly into mediocrity; but it’s not inevitable,
that too is a choice. So why not make better choices, harder choices, choices
worthy of a country I fought for called “America.” No apologies.

I’m proud to have participated in America’s last imperialist war. Barring some
future surge of national strength or militaristic right-wing government, future
conflicts will be humanitarian in nature, us coming to the aid of an ally,
precision retaliatory strikes, or defense against foreign armies. We won’t have
the luxury of choice. War will be demanded of us, war will overtake us. In a
time of strength, which many now argue has past, the best defense was a good
offense. We’ll never know how many people may have suffered and died in our own
country were it not for the wars in Afghanistan and Iraq. If we stood by and
did nothing, how many more planes would have flown into our towers? What if
they just kept coming? How many of our own children would have died in their
homes not knowing life? Soldiers are strong and we know the game. We choose to
fight the enemies of America on their soil, on our terms, and if there isn’t
something to be admired in this I don’t know what is. We bleed and suffer and
live with the consequences of our actions for the rest of our lives so that the
rest of you can plead innocence and go on with “normal” life. We can’t hate you
for it, as long as you recognize what we’ve done.

The Iraq War is over, but don’t let it be forgotten. There’s a war still going on,
it’s in a country called Afghanistan, and it’s more important than anyone
realizes. Don’t forget about the soldiers who gave their lives, their limbs,
and their sanity to the cause. Don’t forget the dead Iraqis, good people who
only wanted to live their lives in peace with their families. Don’t forget how
strong of a people we are, how much we have to offer this world. Forget and you
admit defeat, forget and it was all for nothing.

Don’t forget us.

Bush Life

Sevilla, Spain 2010

“Bumba! You souljah?”

“Yeah, I was a soldier.”

“When I yout’ I went to military

“Really John? You were in the…”

“I was in the Navy. Ees fun, but ees
crazy. Ya know?

John was in the Jamaican Navy
and speaks in reggae verse. I’m not sure when he is speaking and when he is
singing. He’s smoking a porro, a hashish and tobacco spliff. The sun is
setting in Sevilla and the air is getting cold.

“I always be getting in trouble with
the ganja. Late, never on time. The Bossman, he always be saying, ‘Hey Rudeboy…
why you come late?’” John hands me the porro.

“Ees hard to be Rastafari ‘n the
Navy. Ees not easy wear helmet over dread.” John laughs as he palms his dreads.
“The helmet, you know, they always be falling off I head when I run. Hey
Souljah, you shivering. You want jacket?”

“No thanks, I’m not cold.”

“I see Souljah…Always I irie, always
I in trouble. They say, ‘Hey rude boy! Why you so irie eye?’ In Navy, you need
be there when Bossman say. But Rasta no say, ‘Need be here’,
Rasta no care.”

“Working for the Man.”

“Always I in trouble… sometimes we
guard ship.” John gestures at a passing ship on the Guadalquivir river. “Why we
guard ship? Why this ship! Isn’t no one on ship. Why you tell me to guard ship?
You guard ship!”

“No one likes guard.”

“So we sleep, the Bossman, he sleep.
When Bossman no sleep he catch us, ‘Hey boy… do ten pushup.’”

“That’s his way.”

“Why I do ten pushup? You sleeping,
I sleeping. I no slave, youse big man, youse in charge. I know. Youse lion,
O.K. Why make me do pushup? It no prove nothing”

I can only nod.

“Ees crazy. Ees fun, but ees crazy”

An icy wind comes off the river.
Time for me to go.

“I miss it. ” John takes a final
drag of the porro, “I miss the bush life. Ees simple, ees hard, but ees
fun. It make a Rasta feel like a real lion. You know?” John flicks the roach
into the river.

A real lion, I miss that feeling.

“I love bush life. If no discover
Rastafari, no discover Jah I may still be Navy. But Jah no about taking life.
Jah no like Bossman tell what do. Rastafari ees simple, ees love. Rastafari, it
save me… you cold Souljah, why you no put jacket on?”

“I’m not cold.”

“Ees fun, but ees crazy. The bush
life. I miss it.”


“Lion be home in the bush.”


Sober Sleepless Nights

It seems like forever since I’ve had a good night’s
sleep. I stay up at all hours of the night alone and read book after book after
book. My tears well up and I am crying as I read about war. I miss being a
warrior. I read books about Vietnam and think, “I didn’t have it so bad.” And
deep down I wish I did. It all seems so far away and yet it’s all I can think

I can’t be around people. There’s nothing in common.
They don’t like me, it’s plain to see, why are they even pretending. I see
pretty girls and see openings to talk to them. I don’t. It’s not that I’m
scared, I just don’t care. I know nothing will happen. I don’t want to invest
the time. I’d rather be alone.

Alone and I miss people. But there are no people. I
talked to Hunter today, he sounds happy again and I’m glad. He had another baby
girl. We laughed as he talked about ‘Hell House’. He wants to go back to Iraq
one day. Tourist visit, we’ll sleep in the IRAM holes. I do too.

Crushing solititude. I didn’t leave the apartment
all day today. Besides the phone call with Hunter I didn’t utter a single word.
I thought about how easy this was.

I sent Facebook messages to one hundred and
fifty people I grew up with. I went to school with these people. Along the way
I picked up and lost friends, not too many with bad feelings. Mostly we drifted
away and life moved on. Schoolboy crushes, smoking partners, acquaintences, legends,

nerds, jocks, people I sat next to in elementary school, people who attended my
parties in high school. I sent out one hundred and fifty messages. I asked how
they were, I asked them to check out the book. One hundred and fifty, maybe
twenty responded.

They said, congratulations. They said they’d check
it out. They said they’d buy it. Why do people say things they’re not going to
do? At least that twenty didn’t ignore me. One hundred and fifty people, not
one new reader. Not one.

I have too much faith in people, somehow this surprised
me. It shouldn’t have. I’ll see many of these people in the next few years.
Home is a small place indeed. The guys will probably shake or slap my hand,
some of the girls may hug me. I should refuse, but I won’t. I’ll smile and nod
my head and say it was great to see you.

Terrible and crushing loneliness. I’ve given up
smoking and embraced reality again. It’s hard to deal with the existential
pain, but I know it’s good for me. I go to school and get inspired and speak
out and stutter and then I am ashamed. Even when I don’t stutter the others
make me shamed at enthusiasm, at passion, and knowledge. I’m a good student this
semester. Nothing but time.

I remember not being able to sleep at Warhorse, at
KBS, in Baghdad. This was a reflective sleeplessness, an exuberance, an energy.
I embraced the loneliness then, only rarely was it painful. I had too many
brothers around. Too many, now there are none.

Holding here in Hawaii. I’m sick of being a haole
and seeing the hate in people’s eyes. I’ve done nothing to offend them. They hate
because I’m big and strong and confident and bright. So much hating because of
this. Hatred because I’m awake. Hatred because I cannot sleep.

And itching. Residual itching from the bed bugs from
New Orleans. The worst part is, I don’t know if they’ll be waiting for me back
home. Maybe they’re here. So much to do and yet nothing to do.

Five years as a warrior. Two years in the desert
wasteland. One year in my writer’s cave. Two months on the road. Now all the
energy is gone. Idealism is dead and I confront failure. You didn’t send me
letters in Iraq. You didn’t buy a drink when I made it home. I bought the
drinks. I sent out the letters. I read alone. I read about war and about
warriors and I am crying.

Sober sleepness nights. And I dream of war.

Back in Paradise

 “Back there I could fly a gunship, I could drive a tank, I was in charge of million dollar equipment, back here I can’t even hold a job parking cars.” – John Rambo, First Blood

I’m realizing that perhaps the hardest part about being a veteran is remembering all the amazing, monumental, and terrible things that happened in the past. All the struggle, pain, and remarkable overcoming; all in my past. The veteran has done extraordinary things, but his doubt is whether he can ever do it again. If the best is behind us why go forward?

How can I do great things in this mundane new life? Where is the real struggle in sitting in class for three or four hours a day or working in front of a computer or holding a nine to five? How do I make friendships based on substance abuse and debauchery? How can anyone respect me when they’ve never seen the best of me?  

So the veteran withdraws into himself. He is suspicious, aloof, and always alone. Maybe he’s proud of his accomplishments; wears a piece of camo or mentions his service offhand in a college class. It doesn’t last long. The apathy, the disinterest, the total lack of empathy, the accusations, feigned acknowledgment; it beats him down until he’s almost ashamed of his service.

Theory, it’s all theory in this “normal life”. No one does anything, no one knows anything, they just talk about how “it should work” and everyone has the answer. College professors dismiss the veteran and think that their studies in books mean something, that they know something about the real world. They talk about good philosophy, religion, and culture; but the veteran has seen these “good” theories lead to mangled bodies, orphaned children, and disabled soldiers. I have nothing in common with my fellow college students who see a college education as punishment rather than an exceptional privilege.

And now I’m back in paradise, back to the islands of Hawaii after touring the country and living rough and seeing all my former brothers in arms. I should be happy, but am I? It’s my own damn fault, no one’s but my own. I should be putting myself out there, making friends, womanizing, but I can’t do it. Everyone is soaked in substance abuse and I can’t do that any longer. The isolation is my PTSD, I cannot rejoin the herd.

“It was a bad time for everyone, Rambo. It’s all in the past now.”

For you! For me civilian life is nothing! In the field we had a code of honor, you watch my back, I watch yours. Back here there’s nothing!”

I know there’s something out there, I can be real again. The problem is finding it.

Thoughts from the Road – Minnesota

Fourth of July—Independence Day—a uniquely American holiday, and Veteran Van is heading west towards Minnesota. Wrapping up visits with two old LTs, now Commanders—great leaders, patriots, and mentors—who remind us of why our Armed Forces, and especially the infantry, are such bastions of courage, intelligence, and strength.

Independence: It’s a word many Americans have forgotten, and some may never know.

The infantry are independent. We hold down entire cities and provinces in hostile territories half-way around the world. We live in abject squalor and yet maintain the professionalism and will to survive and accomplish impossible missions under impossible circumstances.

Independence is strapping on a heavy rucksack and walking out with your brothers in arms to distant outposts. Independence is leaving the comforts of hometown life at an early age to confront the harsh realities of the real world. Independence is casting off the shackles of colonial masters back in the day, in good old 1776, and teaching the world, for the first time, what a free society can become. Independence is heading out in a van, loaded down with books, and seeing what kind of adventures one can stir up.

Two days before arriving in Detroit, we try to schedule a police ride-along.

“Hello. Is this ___________ Police Precinct?”

“Yes. How may I help you?”

“I’m an author and Iraqi War Vet looking to do a police ride-along with your department.”

“Oh. . . just show up at any precinct a few hours before you want to go out. They’ll accommodate you.”

“Thank you, that’s too easy. . .”

Except it isn’t. We get shuffled from one station to another before being politely told that we should really only go out on Friday or Saturday (it’s Sunday); otherwise, nothing will happen.

But that’s okay, because our old LT is now a recruiting Commander and veritable Duke of Detroit, who gives us an infantry-style patrol of the once great American city. It’s better this way.

We drive along 7 Mile Road, through back streets, commercial roads, and rows of houses. An endless urban sprawl of decrepit, abandoned America stretches out before us; miles and miles and miles. Traffic lights at four way intersections aren’t working, burnt out and collapsed houses are everywhere, the only businesses are Coney Island hotdog shacks, cell phone providers, and liquor stores. Cut off the sewage, let the black water run loose through the streets, and this is isn’t America: this is Iraq.

What happened to the American Dream in Detroit? How can a child who only knows 7 Mile Road hear those words and not laugh in unknowing bewilderment? What’s happening to all of America?

Everywhere we go there’s this defeatist attitude. People cannot seem to talk enough about how America has lost its way, how the politicians have led us astray, and that we’re doomed to reenter some kind of dark age. There’s recession, China’s on the rise, perpetual threats of terrorism and endless war, and even 2012 doomsday prophecies. When did this country of optimists get so jaded?

Perhaps if we recaptured the spirit of the Fourth of July, maybe if we re-learned independence, we as a people and a country could break through this losing streak. Independence requires discipline, non-entanglement in the affairs of others, and the courage, intelligence, and will to stand alone. There are no easy answers, no simple solutions; only challenges and how we meet them. We need to remember that we’re not entitled to anything, that greatness, like respect, is not given, but only earned. It’s going to be a lot of work, but that’s what Americans do best.

Thoughts from the Road – New Jersey Campsite

Nearing the halfway mark of the tour, about to spend a week in the Big City—New York—the mission is in full swing.

And it’s definitely a mission. This is not a get-rich-quick scheme; in fact, it’s one of the hardest things I’ve ever attempted and it weighs heavy on my soul.

It’s heavy when you sit in front of your display for hours, in front of the US flag I fought under, in front of a banner urging people to hear veterans stories, and not even a single person stops to give you the time of day. It’s hard to sell a book, a story I’ve pored years of sweat and tears into, and get little response from people on the street, in the bookstores, and even my own friends and supporters.

“Hey sir, do you know anyone who served in the military?”

“Yeah! And they’re all dead!”

“Ma’am. Do you like to read?”

“Yes, very much.”

“Want to check out this book I wrote? It’s about the War in Iraq?”

“Oh. . . I think I know enough about what’s going on over there.”

A group of cute women my age.

“Excuse me ladies? Do you support your soldiers?”

Nothing. Not even a response.

One of the greatest parts about this tour is talking to vets: Iraq, Afghanistan, Gulf War I, Vietnam, Korea, and even a few World War II. They stop and shake my hand, we share stories, but most of all we share knowing looks. They might be too broke to buy a book, but they check it out, and tell me I’m doing good things.

Older hobos and vagrants frequently stop and talk, more often than not, they’re Vietnam vets. They may be panhandling from other people, but they’re not looking for handouts from me.

“You a veteran?”

“Yes sir. And you?”


“Thank you for your service sir.”

“No. . . thank you, son.” A handshake, some human acknowledgment, that’s all they want from me, and I’m more than happy to give it. We owe them, but America hung them out to dry. We demanded that the soldiers, marines, airmen, and sailors of that generation go over to a jungle halfway around the world and kill for the sake of “American ideals.” They came back, many fucked in the head for what they had to do to survive, what they thought they were doing for all their loved ones and communities and nation. America called them “baby-killers” and now watch in disgust as many of them age away, take to the streets, and survive in a new jungle: an indifferent homeland.

One thing that’s been continuously reinforced throughout this entire trip is that the younger generation as a whole, my generation, does not care about the wars going on or the veterans who fought in them. If you don’t have some kind of human connection to the fight—a brother, a mother, a nephew, or cousin—then you don’t know and you don’t care. I’ve about ceased trying to sell books to people between the ages of 18 and 30—the young crowd, the hip crowd, the college crowd. These are the future leaders of America, who don’t know shit about what it really means to go to war, and you know what’s going to happen when they in turn become businessmen and lawyers and politicians and educators? They’re just going to send off the next generation to the slaughter, to kill more people halfway around the world who just want to survive and feed their own families.

But I can’t just disparage the youth, because that’s too easy. An Army buddy of mine, a brother-in-arms, who showed me a great time in his hometown and always treats me like family, is in the doghouse with his wife and in-laws because of Zarqawi’s Ice Cream.

“You did that? I can’t believe you!”

“I can’t believe I let him sleep in my house!”

“He makes the Army look bad, like you guys were a bunch of savages.”

We were a bunch of savages. You send off a bunch of teenagers to kill people halfway across the world and expect us to act like missionaries? We were just tools, so you didn’t have to get your hands bloody, so you could sleep at night and tell yourself that you’re a good person.

All the time I hear it. “I didn’t support the war.” I guess the insinuation is that you don’t have to hear about it or deal with the consequences, or even give a moment of your time to the veterans who volunteered to fight and bleed and risk insanity and give years away to a cause they can’t define or benefit from.

But you did support the war. In 2003 your Congress, your Senate, and your President decided to invade Iraq…and by overwhelming majorities. And it’s still going on. People are dying in Iraq and Afghanistan, soldiers and civilians. Death is death is death.

If you want sanitized stories, if you want to keep living in a false reality and pretend like you know what’s going on, then don’t buy my book, don’t listen to the vets of Korea and Vietnam and Iraq and Afghanistan who did inhumane things to fellow human beings so that fat Americans can keep eating cheeseburgers and driving luxury cars. Know the consequences of going to war, what putting a machine gun in the hands of a teenager is going to do him and the society he lives in.

Don’t judge us, because you don’t know.

Listen to our stories.

Thoughts from the Road – New Orleans and Tennessee

The Big Easy was good to us. Good friends, good food, good times.

Brian (far left) and Daniel, a former Army medic and artist, in New Orleans on Decatur Street.

Local artist Daniel Garcia and his crew adopted us and made us feel like family. We set up shop in front of his Courtyard Gallery on Decatur Street and did some serious street selling. There’s nothing like selling on the streets with a whiskey drink in your hands. New Orleans is a wonderful place.

Jazz and Blues music wafted down Decatur street and we sweated through our shirts as we pitched the book. We drank almost because we had to: to stave off the heat and not by choice. The people walking New Orleans were supportive of the book and of our stories. Strangers bought me drinks and quickly became friends. Met some veterans and some current service members too, heard their stories. All in all, New Orleans has been the best stop yet.

We gave Paulie and his dog Zephyr a ride from New Orleans to Nashville. Paulie didn't bring much to the table, but Zephyr was a cool dog.

Leaving the city, we agreed to give Paulie, a penniless traveler, and his dog, Zephyr, a ride to Nashville. Paulie had been living on the streets and panhandling to get by. A classic example of the needy hippie, Paulie brought nothing to the table. He nickel and dimed us, used our supplies, and one-upped anything we had to say. Needless to say, we were more than ready to kick Paulie out of Veteran Van the moment we got to Nashville. Not even a thank you after providing a ten hour ride, but that’s hippies for you.

The problem with the outlaw lifestyle is eventually the law is going to catch up with you. The law caught up to us in Dandridge, Tennessee. In retrospect, pulling off the side of the highway to pop off a few rounds right before dropping Nick off at the airport was pretty stupid. Under the circumstances, they treated us pretty well. They didn’t take me to jail and the officers said that in court tomorrow, I’ll probably pay a fine and forfeit the gun. She was a good gun too. . . oh well, life goes on.

We’re losing Nick at the Knoxville Airport. He was a solid member of the crew for the first quarter of the journey. Our band of three becomes a band of two. Space opens up in Veteran Van, but we lose another worker and a friend.

Veteran Van journeys on.

Thoughts from the Road – Texas

Highway 10, on the road to New Orleans, and it’s almost midnight. We have no idea where we’re sleeping tonight; maybe a campground, maybe a rest stop; perhaps there’ll be no sleep at all.

Van living is a tough life, and Texas spared no punches. In Huntsville we camp for the night and see an eight-foot alligator, night-stalk an armadillo, and battle with ants.

In Austin we set up shop on a street corner fair. “Circus Food,” Bob calls it. A flash rain storm makes us happy to have our umbrella. Everything gets wet. I go out to an open mic night I saw in the paper. Seven people are there, an eclectic group, when I read my chapter from the book. Thirty minutes later there’s thirty. No sales.

Back at the Circus: “Bob, Nick. You sell anything?” They’ve made a carny friend. She gives them funnel cake and beer. “Maybe three copies.” We make a few more sales, shut down, and hit the road.

In Dallas we roam Main Street until well after last call at the bars. It’s hot and we sleep in an empty parking lot downtown. I lie on the floor and fight Bob for leg room. Scratching my sweaty hide reminds me of heat sleep in Iraq, reminds me of the austerities of being on a mission.

We can’t open the door to our budget hotel room in Galveston. The guy in the room next to us burns plastic in a barbeque, commenting, “You guys are vets huh? I’m a vet.”

He looks awful. “Vietnam?”

“No,” he says, “Gulf War.” His fat kid steps outside in only his underwear and stares at us.

We find a rusty razor blade and a screwdriver bit in the bed. The headboard falls off the wall the moment we touch it. The place is a flophouse. I plant myself in front of the laptop, drink beer, and catch up on business while Bob and Nick hit the bars.

We haven’t really eaten all day and when they come back at 2:00 we’re all hungry. I’m resolved to a “beer dinner” but Bob remembers the pasta in the Van. We cook it up in his fuel stove in the hotel room and wash the dishes in the shower. Van life.

At a small bookstore in Houston I chat with the nice lady who runs the store and pick up a copy of Toqueville’s Democracy in America. Sales for the day are low, but the first book sold is to a friend from the Army who makes a special point of driving out to see us, buys the book, and invites us to a fajita dinner.

Delicious meal, my friend, and good war stories.

And then it’s back on the road.

Thoughts from the Road – Phoenix

Driving away from Phoenix, on the road to Austin, and it’s my turn to rest in the back seat. Except it’s time for business, never enough time for business.

I thought writing the book would be the hard part. Stage One.

No way. Then I had to self-publish my manuscript. Production, with its myriad and intricate processes, collaborations, trusts, and curses. Stage Two.

Now I have to sell the damn thing, I have to sell myself, and that’s something else entirely. Stage Three.

So I find myself driving across country in a passenger van, a rock solid E-150, an American vehicle. I’ve taken out all but four seats, loaded her down with enough gear to live out of for two months, and piled the back cargo space high with boxes of books (1,300, to be precise).

I’m with my hometown friend Nick and my war buddy (and character in the book Zarqawi’s Ice Cream: Tales of Mediocre Infantrymen) Bob.

Phoenix is done and past. It was a little rough, but I think we’ve all learned a lot.

Bob learned that learning to ride a skateboard can be rough. Skating down some smooth city streets, he quickly gained speed, attempted to bail and run out his speed, and ended up crashing to the concrete and rolling to his feet.

Doctor Nick and Medic Goldsmith quickly diagnosed a dislocated or separated shoulder. Back at home base, we Googled how to fix a dislocated collarbone and quickly set to work. Check out the footage in the videos section of the website.

We would later learn that our methods to manually relocate Bob’s shoulder were not in vain. At the VA hospital the doctors said the shoulder had indeed been dislocated and put back into place, and that it remained separated.

Bob will be fine in a week or two, he’s a soldier and he’s tough, but until then he’ll be sporting a sling.

I’ve been reminded that there must be limits. We are not invincible, and there will be casualties. There will be highs and there will be lows. Like any good mission, there will be sacrifices. Veteran Van is a pretty audacious caper. Normal people don’t write, self-publish a book,  and drive ten thousand miles across country in a van to promote it. . .

But maybe they should.

I went to grade school safe and confident in Empire America, the country who fought the good fight, who fought it valiantly, and rested confidently assured in perpetual and gentlemanly victory.

Now it seems as if all is lost. We’re sunk in recession and mired in global conflict. China is set to surpass us soon as the global economic and political powerhouse of the century. My friends from high school with college degrees (and college debt) are bussing tables and living with Mom.

But it doesn’t have to be that way. Sometimes we have to let go of doubt and fear and luxury and embrace the struggle. Sometimes we have to be weird and spontaneous and irrational and just a little bit monster.

Sometimes you just have to hop in the van and ride.

It feels good.

“Zarqawi’s Ice Cream”: One Vet’s Tales on His Time in Iraq

From Associated Content…

‘Zarqawi’s Ice Cream’: One Vet’s Tales on His Time in Iraq

Andrew Goldsmith Relives the Iraq War

By Amy and Nancy Harrington, Pop Culture PassionistasYahoo! Contributor Network

May 6, 2011

In 2004, 19-year-old Andrew Goldsmith was bored. So he did what any red-blooded American boy would do. He joined the Army. He served two tours in Iraq — the first in 2006 and the second in 2008. He climbed the ranks from private to sergeant and then left the military in 2009. He’s now written a book about his experiences. “Zarqawi’s Ice Cream” is a personal account about the effects of modern day war and his changed perception of the world.

In a recent interview, Goldsmith revealed that he thought joining the army would be “a little bit more action, more combat, a little more danger, more romance.” But that is not what he experienced. He divulged, “There was that element of danger and bravery and explosions, but like anything in life it tends to be 90% drudgery for all the excitement and danger that you face — a lot of hard work, a lot of bureaucracy, a lot of menial labor. That’s kind of the source of a lot of my stories is that aspect of the un-military life, that aspect of the Iraq life. And I don’t think it’s covered in too many other places, but it’s a very important part of it.”

Goldsmith said the title, “Zarqawi’s Ice Cream,” came from one of the signature stories in the book, which took place during his first tour of duty in 2006. He explained, “It’s basically the mission that we all thought would be super cool, super cool infantry mission, but it ended up being a worse mission than some of the worst ones we’ve ever been on. I guess it’s a story of irony, twist of fate.”

Goldsmith described his time in Iraq, saying, “The impact made me less of an idealist, more of a realist. I saw that things in the real world are never black and white. It’s always shade of grey. No one’s ever wholly evil. No one’s ever wholly good. We all have our personal battles. And I’m just really glad I was able to get the perspective on the world and on the way it actually is by going to another country, a war torn country like Iraq and it’s really helped me understand my own country and my own people a little bit better as well.”

The veteran came back home with a new point of view, but was challenged by how to fit in to this now mundane, every day life. He started college in Hawaii and began to attempt reintegration. His biggest difficulty was finding commonalities with civilians, admitting, “Sometimes I have this alienation, this feeling that we don’t really have any shared experiences, any common history. So that’s been a big problem.” He added, “I don’t have any major PTSD events. Loud explosions don’t really spook me too much. They do sometimes but I deserve it, it means I’ve been staying up too late or something. But that’s about the extent of it. I think it’s mostly just social relationships, finding friends again. Trust is an issue a lot.”

Trying to find his way, Goldsmith spent a semester abroad in Europe — a period that would open the floodgates for the first-time author. He recalled, “That’s were the creative tendencies of this book really happened. That’s when I was reliving a lot of this stuff. The stories just kept coming into my head and that’s when I first stared writing it down and the idea for a book gradually formed.”

He noted, “This whole writing project was not something I really wanted to do… it’s always been something that I have to do. Something has been compelling me to write this. Whether that’s for catharsis, peace of mind. Whether it’s just that when we tell our stories, it lets us live with who we are, what we’ve done.”

And so “Zarqawi’s Ice Cream” was born. Goldsmith admits there is content that non-military readers may not relate to, but he also pointed out, “It’s for anybody. It’s for my mother, my father. But there’s some hidden stuff that Iraqi veterans, Afghanistan veterans, are really going to like. They’re really going to understand more than anybody.”

He has shown the book to some of his war buddies from Iraq and remarked, “They’ve all loved it. Positive responses.” He got a lot of support from his fellow vets during the process of writing the book.

“When this project was in its early stages, my ego wasn’t too built up yet, and I wasn’t really confident in my work. Whenever [the editors] would redo it and [my friends would] respond positively to it, that would give me a little more impetus to keep going, check it out.”

After he finishes his current semester at school, Goldsmith will embark on a two-month cross-country tour to promote the book. He’ll be traveling with Bob Harrington, an army buddy who has started a charity called AspiringWarrior.org to raise money for higher education scholarships for vets. The duo will stop at military bases, bookstores and country fairs. Goldsmith stated, “It’s going to be a mixture of selling books out of the trunk of the car and professional PR work.”

After the tour, the author will return to school but hopes to pen another work. He reflected, “This process of writing has been awesome. It’s been real natural. So I definitely see some more in the future.”

For now he hopes people walk away from reading this book with a new understanding of the military. He commented, “First off, they’re going to like the story. It’s a great story. Secondly, they get to follow the hero in a modern era. This is how our generation goes to war. So anybody who wants to experience that is going to enjoy this book. This book is going to enlighten a lot of people as to how war is these days. What it does to people, the consequences of it. Who the enemy is… It’s good stories. Everyone’s going to laugh. There are some parts where you’re going to want to cry.”

“Zarqawi’s Ice Cream” goes on sale in May 2011.